


Just as Well

by rabbit_hearted



Category: Purple Hyacinth - Ephemerys & Sophism (Webcomic)
Genre: And hot hand holding, F/M, I finally wrote a trashy supermarket bodice ripper, It's just a lot of pining in moors, KyKi as BENNET SIBLINGS, KyWi makes a few cameos but it's minor, This is pretty much if you skipped to the last 1/3 of P&P, Tristan is Lady Catherine but he isnt evil, and emotional constipation, this is not high brow literature people, yes I am rewriting a 200 year old classic so I can write Lauki making out in a moor what of it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-11 07:01:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28347348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabbit_hearted/pseuds/rabbit_hearted
Summary: Three months ago, if you asked Kieran for his opinion on one Miss Lauren Sinclair, he would kindly tell you that she was the most haughty, ill-mannered, prejudiced creature he had ever had the misfortune of encountering. He would tell you that he promptly resolved to loathe her from the moment she turned her nose up at the mere prospect of sharing a dance with him.The only problem was that loathing her seemed to be getting harder to do lately.A Pride and Prejudice AU with Lauren as our dashing Darcy.
Relationships: Lauren Sinclair/Kieran White, William Hawkes/Kym Ladell
Comments: 49
Kudos: 79





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ArchiveOsprey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArchiveOsprey/gifts).



> Well, here it is! This is a fully-written, 12.5k three-part story I wrote for the inimitable [ArchiveOsprey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArchiveOsprey/pseuds/ArchiveOsprey). Viv, I’m so glad I got to do this for such a talented writer as yourself. Also, this will teach you to be more specific with your Secret Santa request next year, lest you end up with a period romance-loving sap again ;) HA
> 
> This happened because I was thinking about how that moment in Ep 69 where Lauren reaches out to Kieran and then hesitates is the spiritual equivalent of the hand flex moment in 2005 P&P, and then Luna egged me on, and ... yeah.

“I think that Lauren Sinclair likes you,” Kym commented airily one afternoon.

They were seated in the drawing room, Kieran at his desk, Kym sprawled lazily on the chaise lounge. She was picking at a scone and pretending to read an etiquette book, much to his amusement, as his sister’s manners had always been notably atrocious.

Kieran stilled his hand, the tip of his quill still poised over the parchment. “What are you on about?”

“You heard me, brother,” Kym chided, pushing herself up on her elbows. With a long-suffering sigh, he set his quill down and turned to face her. The half-siblings shared the angular, somewhat severe countenance their mother had possessed, though her hair was lighter than his, the navy of a chilled riverbed. Their mouths spoke mostly to their resemblance, both wiry and half-quirked, as though perpetually lingering on the memory of a grin.

“I rather think she _likes_ you,” she added, swiping a scone crumb off of her lip.

“You’re even madder than I took you for, then,” Kieran quipped. “You might recall her calling me _perfectly tolerable—”_

“That was ages ago!”

“—and _not handsome enough_ to tempt her.” 

But the retort sounded weak, even to his own ears. Time had softened the severity of his predispositions towards Miss Sinclair, which were certainly not few in number after their disastrous introduction to one another. It was three months ago, at a ball Sir William Hawkes had thrown to inaugurate his arrival at Netherfield Park.

The room quieted instinctively when she walked in, a fact which could have been attributed to either her status or her looks, which were almost other-worldly in their handsomeness. Her features were neither soft nor demure, but wickedly sharp, catching the flickering light of the candelabra like shards of glass. Her wealth was abundantly evident in her attire, a striking, wine-colored bodice that complimented her complexion devastatingly and tossed the light in gentle, reddened refractions.

While the majority of the party seemed to cower in their indomitable presences, Kym Ladell, ever unbothered by other peoples’ opinions of her, waited the respectable length of one dance and then promptly marched up to introduce herself with Kieran lingering in her tow.

“And this is my brother, Kieran White,” Kym said, slinging her slender arm around Kieran’s back.

“I’m very pleased to meet you,” Sir Hawkes replied affably, dipping into a bow.

“The pleasure is mine.” Kieran turned to look at Lady Sinclair, who had not spoken a word since her arrival at the ball. She was, in fact, boring a hole into a spot on the floor as though it had personally affronted her.

“Do you care for dancing, Miss Sinclair?” Kieran asked.

At last, she pulled her gaze up from the floor and onto him. Despite the apparent closeness of their friendship, Hawkes and Sinclair could not have been more different in their dispositions. William’s radiated with the warmth of the sun, with a blithe smile and an easiness of his affectation. When Miss Sinclair's attention drifted over Kieran, however, it felt as sparse and cool as moonlight. “Not if I can help it,” came her flat reply.

An amused grin twitched at Kieran’s lips. “And why is that?”

Miss Sinclair blinked dazedly, as though she hadn’t expected the retort. He was close enough to admire the bewitching color of her eyes, a shade of pale ochre swirled with gold towards the center of her pupil. “I am of the opinion that there are more interesting ways to pass the time,” she replied stiffly.

“And I am of the opinion,” Kieran countered, “That dancing is one of the finest pleasures of life.” He tilted his head meaningfully towards the center of the room, where couples were beginning to take their places.

It was only when she tilted her chin back to appraise him fully that he noticed how close they’d drawn towards one another; her warm breath drifted over his cheek, the vulpine slant of her jaw near enough to touch, if only he were to drift his fingertips over it.

“As I said, Mr. White,” she stuttered, a flush rising in her pale cheeks, “I do not dance.”

“A shame,” Kieran countered softly. “I can only hope, then, that you are able to find some enjoyment this evening, however fleeting.”

Miss Sinclair shook her head jerkily. “Good evening,” she mumbled, dipping swiftly into a curtsy and turning on her heel to leave. With a chagrined glance, Will turned and trotted after her.

For a long, uncharacteristically quiet moment, the siblings watched the two depart with faint incredulity. Kieran would be remiss not to admit that he had found her boldness intriguing. It wasn’t common, after all, for an eligible woman in polite society to be so forward in her expression of such sentiments.

“Well,” Kym murmured dryly. “That went well, I think.”

The rest of the evening passed uneventfully, until, after several dances, Kieran grew so weary that he felt quite certain he’d faint without a break. He inclined his head so that it was level with his sister’s ear, his voice low enough to be hard over the music. “I’m going to get some air in the garden.”

Kym spun, spilling a drop of champagne onto her corset. Her dark gaze was blown wide with fervor, as though she couldn’t bear to miss a single detail of the evening. “Fetch me more champagne on your way back, will you?”

Kieran plucked the flute from her hand. “I think you’ve had enough,” he replied flatly. “Behave while I’m gone.”

Kym beamed toothily. “As though I’d do anything but,” she chirped, twirling into another dance.

After getting turned around on more than one occasion, as the estate was as sprawling as it was intimidatingly elegant, Kieran finally found the entrance to the courtyard. It was, of course, immaculately kept, consisting of spiraling pathways bordered on all sides by fragrant blossoms. As he bent to inspect a honeysuckle, he noticed that Sir Hawkes and Miss Sinclair had evidently had the same idea to take their leave. They were seated on a bench facing the babbling marble fountain, partially obscured from Kieran’s view by a gilded rose trellis.

“Will you really not dance?” William asked. “I, for one, have found it very invigorating.”

“You know that I do not care for dancing, William,” Lauren replied coyly. “And besides, your judgement of the activity is clouded by your infatuation with that Kym Ladell.”

Kieran stilled. He knew, of course, that it was impolite to eavesdrop, but there was something in Lady Sinclair’s pointed tone as she spoke about his sister that gave him pause.

“She is very handsome,” William replied. “And very … spirited.”

Kieran smiled fondly. Most people were permeable to Kym Ladell’s charms, himself included. She had made a practice of leveraging them to get her way ever since they were children.

“Spirited indeed,” Lauren agreed. To Kieran’s surprise, her tone sounded sincere.

“And her brother,” William continued. “He was very agreeable, was he not? I’m sure he’d take kindly to a dance with you.”

“He is perfectly tolerable, I suppose,” Lauren replied dryly, “Though not handsome enough to tempt me.”

Kieran’s smile waned at that.

“With your standards,” William replied, guffawing, “I dare say that there is not a man on this planet handsome enough to tempt you.”

Lauren huffed. “Now you’re getting it, my dear friend. I am simply endeavoring to be wary enough for the both of us, lest you believe someone has fallen for your heart when it is your wallet they’re truly after.”

Kieran, certain that he had overheard quite enough, whirled out of the garden. And thus precipitated what was, in mild terms, a _tumultuous_ relationship between the two of them. He could not recall meeting another person so severe in their perceptions of people, so willfully prejudiced. He vowed to loathe her from the moment she turned her nose up at the mere prospect of sharing a dance with him.

The only problem was that, lately, loathing her seemed to be getting harder to do.

“Like I said,” Kym replied around a mouthful of scone, “That ball was a long time ago.”

The state of affairs between them _had_ softened, somewhat. The last time he had seen her was at a ball at Hertfordshire, and they had, by some miracle, managed to last the entirety of the evening without arguing.

“I cannot say with any certainty that her regard for me has improved.”

Kym hummed noncommittally. “Perhaps you will see her when you visit Lukas and Lila.”

Kieran swiped the rest of the scone off of her plate and tossed her a quizzical look. “What?”

“A letter arrived just this morning from Rosings Park. They’ve invited you to spend the fortnight with them in Kent.”

Kieran chewed thoughtfully. “And how does that involve her?”

Kym sighed petulantly, swatting at his hand when he made to grab for her cup of tea. “Must I spell _everything_ out for you, brother? Tristan Sinclair is Lukas’s benefactor.” When Kieran blinked blankly at that, she added, very slowly, as though he was a proper simpleton: “As in, Lauren Sinclair’s _uncle._ God, you really are a dolt—”

“Lauren’s uncle,” Kieran murmured, turning towards the window. It was raining gently outside, swathing the grounds of Longbourne in pleasant watercolor hues. “Oh.”

“ _Oh_?”

“Yes,” Kieran replied dryly. “Oh. It’s often used as an exclamation—”

“I know what it _means_. Pemberley isn’t far from their estate. It seems rather likely that you’ll see her during your time in town,” she mused, her words syrupy.

When he fixed her with look at that, Kym blinked up at him with feigned docility, her lip puckered into a round little pout.

“What is your scheme?” Kieran murmured.

“Scheme? I have none.”

“Ha!” Kieran barked, leaning down to flick her ear. “And _I_ was born yesterday, evidently.”

“I only mean to suggest,” Kym added, standing, “That you might find you have more in common with her than you think. I think that she is very lively, and—“

“That’s one word for it—”

“—most refreshing. It isn’t often to happen upon a woman of her birth who speaks her mind so freely.” Kym chuffed his chin on her way out of the drawing room. “Think about it, brother.”

* * *

Heeding his sister’s advice, Kieran _did_ think about it during his carriage ride to the Randalls’ estate in Kent that following afternoon. It was true that Miss Sinclair had made an earnest effort to be civil with him upon their last meeting, despite her obvious discomfort with the social setting. She had even broached topics of polite conversation, inquiring about the health of his family and the weather in Longbourne.

The problem was that he could not discern what had precipitated such a change in her disposition. Kieran did not consider himself overly suspicious of people, but she _had_ made her unfavorable opinion of him abundantly clear. He could not scarcely believe that this had changed since their first meeting.

“What are you thinking so intently about?” Lila asked him over dinner that evening. She tilted her head, concern furrowed in her slender brow. “You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”

Kieran blinked out of his reverie, grinning faintly. Although they had met as children, Kieran considered his friendship with Lila as close as though she were another sister to him, and she had always had a propensity for discerning his thoughts before he had even articulated them. “I suppose I am distracted,” he admitted sheepishly.

“Well,” Lila replied, spearing a piece of chicken off with her fork. “You’d do well to rest tonight, then. We are to be received by Tristan Sinclair tomorrow.”

Kieran coughed, inadvertently sputtering a mouthful of wine onto the front of his cravat. A maid appeared at his side with a clean handkerchief, to which he nodded his sheepish thanks. “I’m sorry?”

Lukas Randall, Lila’s husband, squinted at him. “What’s gotten into you?” He inquired bluntly.

Kieran sighed, dabbing fruitlessly at his stained cravat. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”

Lukas arched a dark brow. “It would seem to me,” he murmured, “That Tristan Sinclair’s name elicited a rather strong reaction out of you.”

“Perceptive as ever,” Kieran muttered, not unkindly. It was impossible to deceive Lukas Randall, particularly when he subjected you to the full force of his wickedly sharp wit.

Lukas was not a terribly emotive man, but his lips twitched subtly at that. “Go on, then,” he prompted.

Kieran sighed, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “I am…” He paused, searching for a word to describe their enigmatic connection. “ _Acquainted_ with Tristan’s niece."

Lila swiveled toward Kieran so sharply that she nearly dropped her fork. “You _know_ Lauren Sinclair? Why, she is the wealthiest woman in all of Derbyshire. Practically owns half of it—”

“Yes,” Kieran replied irritably. “I know.”

“I have never met her, though we know her uncle quite well, of course.” She paused. “How would you describe her?”

Kieran hesitated, finding that he could not, in good conscience, subject her character to the sentiments he originally thought to be true. Her haughtiness had not changed, nor the sharpness of her tongue. But he found himself drawn to her wit, which he had initially mistaken for pretentiousness. “She is opinionated,” he answered slowly.

The Randalls wore identical expressions of confusion, but it was Lukas who spoke. “Opinionated?”

A grin twitched at his lips unbidden. “Quite.”

“I’ve heard that she is very beautiful,” Lila replied wistfully. “Is that so, Kieran?”

“Very much so,” he murmured. His opinion on _that_ particular subject had not changed.

Lukas hummed. “Well, it is unlikely we’ll see her, at any rate. I believe she’s in London on business.”

Kieran glanced up from his plate at that, surprised by the unanticipated pang of disappointment he felt at the news. It wasn’t as though he’d been expecting to see her, after all. “Does she often travel?”

Lukas nodded. “We shall make a trip to Pemberley before you leave Kent. The estate is just up the road.”

Kieran’s eyes widened slightly. “Oh. I don’t think that will be necessary—”

Lila frowned. “Why ever not?”

A silence fell upon the room as the two peered at Kieran inquisitively, waiting for him to elaborate on his statement. “Well, you know…” He waffled, gesticulating vaguely with his palm.

“I dare say I don’t,” Lukas quipped.

“Miss Sinclair. She’s so…”

“So?”

“So… rich,” Kieran fibbed weakly.

Lukas snorted. “By God, I hadn’t thought you so prejudiced, Kieran.” He took a sip of his wine, eyeing him speculatively over the rim of the glass.“I can only hopethat you won’t be so vocal with such sentiments when we dine with her uncle tomorrow.” There was, in truth, no logical reason for him to be opposed to seeing her. They had even departed on favorable terms upon her last visit to Hertfordshire.

And yet, he could not quell the peculiar thrill at the prospect throughout the rest of their meal that evening.

* * *

Tristan Sinclair turned out to be exceptionally pleasant company, and notably absent of the predispositions which Kieran found were common of people of his station. His estate, Rosings Park, was austere but not overly so, with elegant furnishings and a quaint, understated charm. After dinner, they settled in the drawing room for a night cap while Lila played a tinkling rendition of _Robin Adair_ on the pianoforte.

“Do you play, Kieran?” Tristan asked.

Kieran turned to him with a sheepish grin. “Very poorly, sir.” His mother had subjected him to several torturous years of lessons in his youth before finally accepting his incompetence in the hobby.

“Oh?” He quirked a brow. “Does your sister play, then?”

It was all he could do not to snort. “No, sir.”

“He is being humble, sir,” Lila commented as the song ended, peering at him coyly over the top of the piano. “Kieran plays very well.”

Tristan’s eyebrows shot up. “You must play something, then,” he urged.

Kieran, horrified, glanced at the piano, then back to Tristan Sinclair’s expectant face. “I assure you, I cannot play—”

“Nonsense,” Tristan replied affably, waving his hand. “Indulge an old man.”

“But—”

“Play _Grimstock,_ Kieran,” Lila interjected, drifting back over to the couch. She turned to Tristan and smiled sweetly. “He used to play it when we were children.”

Kieran cast a dismayed look around the room and found that Lukas’s face was contorted into an expression that suggested he was precariously close to fainting with laughter.

With a long-suffering sigh, he dragged his feet throughout his grim pilgrimage to the pianoforte and then dropped stiffly onto the bench, inspecting the ivory keys intently, as though willing them to spontaneously animate.

“Prepare yourself for something dreadful,” he muttered, stumbling into the first notes of the ballad. It wasn’t a complicated tune; in fact, it was one most children could play, but he was so out of practice that his hands could hardly recall the chord shapes.

The party lapsed back into polite conversation around him after that, though Kieran only half-registered the words, being as focused on his horrendous playing as he was. When someone came to accompany him some ten minutes into the piece, he didn’t notice their presence until they were right behind him, their slender shadow stretched like putty over the top of the piano.

“Is it that bad?” He inquired without looking up, assuming thathis newfound companion was Lukas or Lila.

But the voice that spoke was not the one he had been expecting. “Not at all.”

Kieran startled, erroneously hitting a discordant C that rang dreadfully throughout the quiet room. His gaze snapped up to collide with Miss Sinclair’s, who was watching him with her head tilted, as though he had just asked her a perplexing question. She looked as radiant as she had the last time he had seen her; her auburn hair was twisted into a simple chignon at her nape, and she wore a gauzy, understated emerald frock that might have looked plain on anyone who wasn’t her.

“Miss Sinclair,” he breathed. “I thought you were in London.”

Miss Sinclair cleared her throat. “I decided to leave next week.” And then she added, somewhat hesitantly, “Is your sister well?”

“Very well,” Kieran replied.

She nodded once, stiffly. “Good.”

Kieran stood clumsily from the bench, his cheeks warm with flush. “Have you, er, met…?” He gestured at Lukas and Lila, who appeared to be deep in conversation with Tristan.

“Yes, before,” Miss Sinclair replied. “You were very focused on your playing.”

Kieran glanced scowlingly at the ceiling. It seemed cruel that the universe had conspired against him to embarrass himself so fully in front of her. “I haven’t practiced in some time,” he mumbled.

“Well, nothing comes easily without practice. I’ve found as much to be true of my flaws.”

Kieran glanced back at her with a skeptical quirk in his brow. “I find it hard to believe that you have any,” he replied, perhaps more earnestly than he’d intended.

Her cheeks pinkened at the compliment. “On the contrary,” Miss Sinclair replied hastily, “I find that I’m rather flawed in the skill of conversation.”

“Conversation?”

Miss Sinclair nodded. “I do not have the talent of conversing with people whom I do not know. I have always envied those who do, such as your sister.”

“Yes, talking has never been a challenge for my sister,” Kieran drawled. “Her problem is that she happens to enjoy the activity in excess.”

Miss Sinclair chuckled at that, a pleasant, hesitant sound that warmed his chest like a stoked ember. He couldn’t recall ever hearing it before, and it was as stunning as it was unexpected. “It seems so.”

When they lapsed back into silence, her grin waned, and he felt illogically desperate, then, to memorize the way her expression softened in mirth. Her smiles were scarce but dazzlingly brilliant, like light refracting off of a mirrored surface.

“Speaking of which,” she added, somewhat sullen now, “You must know that I feel very poorly about how I acted on the night that we met.”

Kieran frowned. “I assure you that I’ve been refused a dance by a lady before,” he replied airily.

“Not just the dance.” She was wringing the front of her skirt between her fingertips as though it were a mere rag and not what he presumed to be rather expensive chiffon. “Kym told me that you overheard what I said to William in the garden that night.”

Kieran blinked, stunned. He hadn’t known the two had even spoken during their last trip to Netherfield. _That scheming imp._ “My sister should not have told you that—”

“Yes, she should have,” Miss Sinclair interjected. When she to look at him, her golden eyes were bright with an emotion he couldn’t immediately place. “I hope that you’ll forgive me.”

If there was anything Kieran White loathed more than having his pride wounded, it was being wrong. He was not so humble as to deny that his intuition was his greatest asset. And yet, as he studied her crestfallen expression, he suspected, then, that he had been very wrong about Lauren Sinclair, perhaps in more regard than one.

Kieran reached out and captured her hand in his, drifting his thumb over the knotted line that ran across her palm. He feared that his action was too forward until, after a moment, she relaxed into his grip, her palm folded flush against his like a pair playing cards.

“Consider it forgotten,” Kieran replied quietly.

* * *

Kieran couldn’t seem to banish her from his mind for the rest of the evening and into the following day. They hadn’t spoken after their conversation; between Tristan’s inquiries after her travels to London and her exchange of pleasantries with Lukas and Lila, there simply hadn’t been another opportunity.

The following morning found him sitting in the drawing room of the Randall’s home, trying and failing to will himself to focus on the letter he was meant to be writing. He was just finishing his address when a maid stumbled into the room and announced, rather breathlessly, that he was to receive a visitor.

“A visitor?” Kieran questioned, setting his pen down. “The Randalls are in town at the moment.”

“No, sir,” The maid replied hastily. “The visitor is here to see _you_.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “It’s _Miss Sinclair_ , sir.”

Kieran eyes widened. “Miss Sinclair?” He stood, smoothing a harried hand over his hair. The maid nodded, evidently mute with astonishment.

“You’re certain she inquired after me?”

“Quite, sir,” she replied.

Kieran swallowed thickly, wishing he’d had half a mind to look marginally more presentable when he’d gotten ready that morning. The pads of his fingertips were still stained with charcoal, his boots thick with mud from his morning walk. Then again, he supposed it was just as well; her mere presence had the effect of making anyone else look vaguely drab when standing next to her. “Alright, then.”

When the maid opened the door, his first thought was that Miss Sinclair looked as though she’d walked the length from Pemberley to Kent, an illogical assumption, as such an activity would be unheard of for a woman of her station. She looked breathlessly lovely; her cheeks were flushed with exertion, and her hair was uncharacteristically disheveled around her dewy complexion.

With a nod, the maid closed the door behind her, and then they were alone.

As though remembering herself, she shook her head clearingly and dipped into a curtsy. “Good afternoon, Mr. White.” Her gaze drifted over the room as fitfully as a buoy suspended in churning waters, unable to settle.

“Good afternoon,” Kieran replied, tilting his head inquisitively. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I was in the area on a walk,” Miss Sinclair replied, to his perplexity. Pemberley was quite far from Kent, and the terrain was certainly not suitable on foot.“I apologize for the unexpected visit,” she added briskly.

“It’s certainly not unwelcome. Would you like to sit?”

“No, thank you, sir.”

The tick of the grandfather clock punctuated the passing of a silent pause. “I’m afraid that the Randalls are gone on business at the moment,” he added.

“That’s quite alright.”

Rather bewildered, he watched as she began to restlessly pace the length of the room, her footfalls creaking lightly against the floorboards. In a somewhat disorienting observation, he found that the hem of her cream skirts were dirtied with mud. Kieran could not recall ever seeing her so utterly unkempt, and while he was certainly not opposed to the handsomeness it afforded her complexion, he could not discern the cause of her agitation.

“I actually came to see you,” she added. Her eyes were still fixed on the grounds of the estate beyond the bay window, as though she was addressing the hedge bushes.

Kieran tilted his head inquiringly. “I—”

“This is a lovely home,” Miss Sinclair interjected breathlessly, spinning to face him.“My uncle was very pleased to see it go to the Randalls.”

Kieran crossed the room slowly, though he was approaching a skittish animal. “It is.”

“And Mr. Randall seems very fortunate in his choice of a wife.”

“Lila is among the very best of wives and women,” he agreed, nodding. “But you didn’t come here to talk about Lila, did you?”

When they nearly stood toe-to-toe, Miss Sinclair finally turned back to him. Her gaze roved over his face searchingly — for what, he could not discern, but he was startlingly certain that he’d give it to her, if only she asked.

“Miss Sinclair,” he murmured, gently tipping her chin up with his finger. “Would you tell me the reason for your visit?” He drifted the pad of his thumb in a slow figure eight over her cheek, which was downy-soft, as pale and round as an unbitten fruit.

Her exhale washed over his knuckle like a warm tide. “I had to see you,” she sighed, as though the statement was a concession. “I’m sorry for the interruption to your…” She trailed off when he brought his other palm up to the side of her face, cradling her as carefully as though she was made of glass. Her eyelids drifted shut, and in the buttery light of the open window, she looked youthful and seraphic, something imagined by an impressionist painter.

Kieran’s lips were nearly level with the hinge of her jaw when the thud of approaching footsteps shattered their spell like cold water to an open flame. Her eyes flew open, as though seeing him for the first time. He knew that they must have looked like twin pictures of one another, lips half-parted and pupils blown and murky with the memory of their desire.

“I… I have to go,” she sputtered abruptly. She disentangled herself from his grasp clumsily, as though fleeing from something caustic.

“Miss Sinclair—”

“Please send the Randalls my regards,” Miss Sinclair added pleadingly. She trotted out of the room with her eyes downcast, her fingertips curled around her dirtied skirts.

“Miss—”

But his words were spoken to dead air, for she was long gone, slipping through the garden and around the vegetable patch and over the crest of the hill with the grace of a gazelle. Kieran simply stood there, frozen in some combination of confusion and reluctant bemusement as her retreating form waned behind a bend in the road.

Moments after her bewildering departure, Lila appeared in the archway of the drawing room, her bonnet tucked in her hands. “What on earth did you do to Miss Sinclair?”

His eyes were still fixed on the window when he replied. “I haven’t the faintest idea.”


	2. Chapter 2

In retrospect, he should have anticipated the rain.

The countryside in autumn was susceptible to storms which were as unexpected as they were mercurial, pounding through the landscape with tepid rainfall, only to depart as quickly as they’d arrived. As Kieran treaded through the moor, he glanced up at the bloated skyline and realized, with a pang of annoyance at his own poor planning, that he’d be catching his death in one before long. Rosings Park was still a ways off on foot; he’d had the bright idea to walk to town rather than inconveniencing the Randalls by taking their horse or carriage.

He had scarcely been walking for ten minutes when he noticed the vague shape of a figure approaching over the hill. Perplexingly, they didn’t seem disheveled or even particularly inconvenienced by the conditions as the rain began to fall in earnest. They stalked through the moor with lithe, precise movements, eyes downcast and shoulders bent forward. He wondered, idly, whether they had adopted such a disposition because they were ignorant to the weather, or simply resigned to their bleak fate to catch pneumonia.

Kieran cupped his palm over his eyes and realized that his unlucky commiserate was a woman; she held her hem in her fists like soiled dishrags, and her bonnet hung limply around her neck, the ribbons unspooled.

“Miss!” Kieran called, setting out towards her. While the intention was surely chivalrous, he wasn’t sure what sort of help he intended to offer, as similarly indisposed as he was. He was, after all, particularly unskilled in the art of materializing carriages out of thin air.

The woman spun to face him, her pale skirts fanning like a blown dandelion. When Kieran took a step closer to her, they both froze.

“Mr—”

“Miss—”

A week had passed since their conversation in the drawing room, but the memory of it in her expression was as resonant as though it had happened a moment ago. His attention drifted to her mouth, which was folded into a whisper of a frown, a raindrop hanging limply off of her lip.

Miss Sinclair wrung her damp bonnet in her hands. “I would curtsy,” she said slowly, “But I suspect we’re beyond the point of formalities.” As though to punctuate her statement, a crack of lighting split the sky, flickering purplish light over her pale face.

It took Kieran a moment to collect his thoughts. Her frock was clinging to her like crepe paper and she was watching him with her brow furrowed in delicate, skittish anguish, looking as pretty as though she’d been placed on the planet for the express purpose of ruining his life.

“What on earth are you doing out in this weather?”He finally managed. “And all the way in Kent.”

“I’m very fond of walking,” she replied haughtily.

“Two miles from home?”

“Yes,” Miss Sinclair replied, with less confidence.

Kieran’s eyes narrowed speculatively and she glanced away, peering down at her boots, as though they’d suddenly become remarkably interesting. The rain had slowed from deluge to to a patter, slightly too cool to be refreshing and too gentle be strictly unpleasant. “I came to speak with you.”

“To speak with me?”

“Well,” she replied, “Our last conversation was not resolved.”

Kieran tilted his wet head. “Ah, you did run off before I could get a word in,” he murmured teasingly. “Do you often end conversations in such a manner?”

Miss Sinclair blinked up at him, frowning. He had meant the statement in jest, but it only appeared to deepen her torment. She sighed and took a tentative step toward him. “It’s as I told you at Rosings. I am not skilled in expressing my feelings.” The hand not holding her bonnet came up to cradle her nape.

Kieran was now thoroughly perplexed. “Your feelings?”

“I have been suffering in vain and I can bear it no longer,” she blurted. For a moment, shock registered in her expression, as though she’d surprised herself with her own words. Her mouth dropped open and then clamped shut once more.

When Kieran blinked, part of him expected her to evaporate into a shimmering vision, as he was quite certain he was hallucinating. His grasp on the English lexicon had suddenly evaded him, though it appeared that she was quite content to continue despite his lack of a response, barreling on ahead in her brisk clip.

“The past months have been a torment. I came to Rosings to see you. I…” She drew in an uneven breath. “I had to see you.”

“Rosings…” Kieran repeated dumbly. He was beginning to feel like a parakeet. “Miss—"

“Believe me, this has been just … as _unexpected_ for me,” Miss Sinclair added. Kieran spent a moment inspecting her with faint incredulity, wondering how someone could manage to be so simultaneously open and utterly enigmatic.

“I’m afraid that I don’t understand, Miss—”

“I love you. Most ardently.”

Kieran opened his mouth, sputtered inarticulably, and then snapped it shut once more. He assumed that she’d rebuffed him after their last encounter. While he was certainly not exceptionally versed in the art of wooing women, he could only presume that her reaction to flee the room after their near-kiss hadn’t exactly boded well for his chances.

“I know that you must find this shocking,” she continued, “Given the differences in our circumstances.”

The pointed statement drew him out of his reverie. Kieran narrowed his eyes. “The difference in our circumstances,” he echoed flatly. “And what might those be?”

She looked aghast, as though he’d posed a preposterous question. Her cheeks flushed with her chagrin. “I am not ignorant to the reality of social politics, Mr. White. There are … _expectations_ , given my station.”

“I see,” he retorted dryly.

“The inferiority of your birth, for one, is incompatible with that of the partner I am expected to marry. I do not have the luxury noblemen do, to fall in love at whim.”

A thunderclap rolled over the wet moor. Drawing a breath through his clenched teeth, Kieran stalked forward and closed the distance between them until they stood toe-to-toe. He was close enough that he could trace the trail of goosebumps that rose over her clavicle like scattered constellations, the faint rise and fall of her chest, the harried puffs of air that she pulled between her half-parted lips.

“Was it all for show, then?” He spat.

She blinked up at him dazedly. “Beg pardon?”

“Your apology at Rosings,” he replied. Did you mean any of it? Or were you merely posturing?”

“Posturing,” she sputtered incredulously. “You can’t really think—”

“I confess that I don’t know what to think, Miss Sinclair,” Kieran gritted. “You apologized for the prejudiced opinion you so cruelly applied before we’d even met, and I thought…” The end of his sentence died on his lips. He glowered at the horizon line, mute with scorn.

“Is this your reply?” She asked, after a pause.

“Yes.”

She pushed a tendril of wet hair behind her ear. The water had darkened its color to a ruddied merlot. “Are you mocking me?”

“I wouldn’t dream of such a thing,” he scoffed sardonically.

“Are you rejecting me?”

Kieran ran his palm over his taut jaw agitatedly. “I’m sure you’ll find a suitable match within your _station,_ Miss Sinclair.”

Miss Sinclair recoiled, as though burned. When she spoke, her voice was breathy with her apparent astonishment. “Are you so repulsed by me, Mr. White?”

 _Repulsed._ Kieran could nearly laugh for how ridiculous the question was. He was loathe to admit that he wanted her, even now. Even after she’d proven, in no uncertain terms, that their differences were irreconcilable, that she’d _deigned_ to love him despite her better judgement. Perhaps he was spectacularly foolish, because when he looked down at her, with her chest heaving and her chin pitched forward in petulance she had absolutely no right to lay claim to, all he could think about was kissing her.

And so, that’s exactly what he did.

He slammed his lips against hers angrily, hard enough that she gasped a little into his mouth, startled by his initiation. But it didn’t take long for him to relax into his grip, her mouth melting against his like a wave against the shore. For a long moment, they remained wide-eyed, staring at one another in defiance. He was implicitly aware that to close his eyes would be to admit defeat.

But she was the first to concede, in the end; her eyelids fluttered shut as she arched into him, curling her hand through the damp hair at his nape. It wasn’t a sweet kiss, but it wasn’t wild, either. There was no clashing of teeth, no gasping breaths or grasping hands. They moved in slow tandem, slinking around one another like predators, never taking more than they could give. When she nipped his lip, he returned the favor. When he parted for air, she moved her hand from his nape to his jaw and wrenched him back to her. The pads of his thumbs were pressed against the column of her throat, and he could feel her battering pulse on either side, an even metronome like an ode to her insatiable desire.

He’d never experienced anything quite like this — quite like _her_. It only seemed fitting that the way she kissed was the same way she moved about life, perplexingly and bearing infinite layers, some which contradicted others. A war and a concession and a promise. His palm at her throat and hers at his jaw, their tongues drifting over one another like river water over stone. Still toe-to-toe, tethered to the muddy earth as though they’d sprung clean out of it, as though they’d always been there, as though they always would be.

Kieran lifted his mouth off of hers, and she whined and then quieted when he replaced it at the base of her throat, tasting her there. When he sighed, it was against the same skin he’d longed to feel under his lips for what had felt like eons, powder-soft and smelling of roses.

“Lauren,” he murmured, drifting his mouth over her collar. It was the first time he’d said her first name, and he found that his mouth curved comfortably around the shape, as though it belonged there. When he pulled away, they faced one another in panting silence. 

Miss Sinclair opened her mouth but said nothing, her lips propped open into a pink little circle. And then she tilted her head, peering over his shoulder at some point in the distance, her brows drawn in in consternation. Still dazed, Kieran slowly turned and followed the path of her gaze.

The dark shape of an elegant, stately carriage crested over the top of the hill, cutting through the winding path of the moor with a sort of ease that spoke to its owner’s wealth, given the modernity of its design. The steeds drew to a stop as they neared, snorting wispy clouds into the wet air.

“Devil,” Lauren muttered through a scowl. She backed away from him as a man emerged from the carriage. The visibility was too low for Kieran to distinguish his features, but he could just discern the short crop of his salt-gray hair and the tall, lithe build of his frame.

“Where on earth have you been?” The man called, beckoning her with his arm. “You’ll catch your death in this weather.”

“My footman,” she explained quietly, her eyes downcast. She glanced at the direction of the Randall’s estate, then back to Kieran's face. 

“Do you, er, need—”

“I can walk,” Kieran cut in hastily. Lord knew he needed to clear his head after what had just transpired. “Are you…” He hadn’t a clue how that sentence was supposed to end, and so he simply let it linger.

“I’ll write you,” she replied brusquely, gathering her ruddied skirts. “How much longer will you be in Kent?”

“‘Till the end of this week.”

Miss Sinclair nodded. “Alright.” She began walking away from him and then turned at the last moment, catching his gaze over her shoulder. “I’ll write you.”

“You already said as much,” Kieran murmured, nodding.

She flushed and then turned, trotting the rest of the length to where the footman stood waiting. And then he watched her climb into the carriage and flee from him for the _second_ time in the span of a single week, retreating back into thin air just as promptly as she’d materialized from it.

“The most perplexing woman I’ve ever known,” Kieran muttered.

* * *

His journey back to Longbourne felt endless.

Miss Sinclair departed for London shortly after their encounter in the moor, leaving him to turn over the memory in his head until it felt as surreal as though he’d experienced it outside of himself. Despite her assurances, her letter never arrived, leaving him just as perplexed as to the nature of her feelings for him as he’d been before. He could not seem to pin her down; in one breath, she disparaged his status, his family, his wealth, and in the next, she kissed him as fervently as though she’d been waiting several lifetimes over for it. And despite all of that, Kieran yearned for her in a way he never had for anyone before. He wasn’t sure what that particular observation said about _himself,_ much less her. 

In the more immediate term, however, he knew that he had more pressing matters to settle.

As soon as his carriage arrived at Longbourne, he stalked through the house in search of his sister, who was, at the present moment, uncharacteristically elusive, a coincidence which he could only presume was by her design. At length, he found her in the garden, propped up on the wooden swing with her legs lazily outstretched in front of her. She wore a white frock and matching bonnet, looking the perfect picture of false innocence.

Kym blinked up at his approaching figure and beamed. “Hello, brother,” she chirped sunnily, setting her book down on her lap, her thumb pressed between the spine. “How was your trip?”

“Oh, it was _lovely_ ,” Kieran drawled, stalking across the grounds toward her. When he reached the swing, he threw his palm out, stilling the creaking chains. “I had a particularly enlightening conversation with Miss Sinclair.”

Kym’s complexion paled as the swing drew to a slow halt. “Did you?” She murmured. “I’m delighted to hear that you two had the chance to catch up.”

“Yes, how positively fortuitous. I’m sure you, of all people, could not have anticipated such an event.”

She exhaled a gusty sigh through her cheeks. “If you’d let me explain—”

“I _knew_ you were scheming,” Kieran snapped. “You told her about Netherfield knowing that I’d see her in Kent.”

Kym heaved a sigh and leapt to her feet, placing her palms flat on her hips. “You know that I love you, but you are exceptionally pigheaded. It’s not your _fault_ , of course. It comes with the affliction of being a man.”

“So you don’t deny it, then—”

Kym tossed her palm up, quieting him. “I do not deny it, nor do I regret it. You two have been dancing around your feelings for months. It’s been insufferable.”

Kieran kneaded the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb, considering her words. “And how,” he began, “Was telling her that I overheard her in Netherfield supposed to aid her affections towards me?”

Kym shrugged. “Conflict is the food of love.”

“I thought that was poetry.”

She waved her palm vaguely. “Same difference, really.” Kieran dropped onto the swing, hunched over with his elbows propped against his kneecaps, his narrowed gaze fixed unseeingly on the rolling countryside.

“So? How did it go, then?” Kym inquired, dropping into the space next to him. Evidently finding her answer in the look he gave her in response, she winced. “Ah.”

“Indeed,” Kieran retorted dryly. “She is … perplexing.” _Perplexing_ was putting it mildly. She was so utterly maddening that the only way he could think to quiet her was with his mouth. He really didn’t have a habit of spontaneously kissing people, but Miss Sinclair had long had a habit of compelling unusual behaviors in him.

“Women tend to be,” Kym supplied unhelpfully, patting his leg. “Tell me what happened.”

Seeing no use in delaying the inevitable, he drew a fortifying breath and then replied, rather plainly, “I kissed her.”

Kym’s head swiveled toward him, her mouth propped open in bald astonishment. “I beg your pardon?”

Kieran relayed the events of his puzzlingencounters with Miss Sinclair with just enough detail to indulge his meddling sister’s countless questions — _But what did she say specifically, brother,_ and _Describe her expression, you always do skip over that part._ His sister, for her many talents, was a patently horrendous listener.

“What on _earth_ does the color of her bonnet have to do with anything?” Kieran snapped, after what he could only presume to be the fiftieth interjection.

“I’m just trying to get a clear picture of the scene,” Kym retorted crossly. Then she fell quiet, palming at her jaw with contemplation. “You two are the most ridiculous people I have ever known.”

“I cannot argue with such an assertion,” Kieran mumbled glumly.

“Well,” she murmured, after a pause, “It’s quite clear that she likes you."

He pulled a heavy hand over his face. “Is it?”

Kym tossed him an impatient glance. “It is abundantly clear that she is as poor at expressing her feelings as you are at swallowing your pride. She likes you.” Kym paused. “I cannot fathom why, however.”

“Nor can I,” Kieran deadpanned, elbowing her side.

When she turned to him, her eyes were bright with the familiar sort of fervor that didn’t typically bode well for him. “You must return to Kent, brother. I’m sure Lukas and Lila will take kindly to receiving you again.”

Kieran stood from the swing and held his palm out to her. “They would,” he murmured agreeably. They had both assured him of as much prior to his departure.

“You will go, then.” Kym stood and weaved her arm through his as they walked back to the house, which was merely a vague, smudgy shape through the sheen of mist that hung in the air, wetting their boots and tangling thickly in the breeze. “It’s settled.”

“Is that so?” Kieran chided. He was, of course, pretending that the mere prospect didn’t make his heart race. “I can’t seem to recall the part where I agreed to anything of the sort.”

“You didn’t have to. I did.”

Kieran snorted. “As much as you would like to believe it so, sister, you cannot bend the world to your will.”

“Says you,” she sniffed. When they reached the foyer, she shrugged off her coat and rubbed her chilled hands together, studying him. “You must go back. The very fate of your love depends on it.”

Kieran cocked his hip against the doorframe and crossed his arms over his chest. “Who said anything about love?”

The gleam in his sister’s gaze had grown into a wicked spark, one that Kieran was certain could raze the entirety of Longbourne to the ground if left unattended. “If you cannot see that Miss Sinclair is hopelessly in love with you,” she replied, as though the sentiment was the most obvious one in the world, “Then you are even more dull than I took you for.”

* * *

Fall lapsed into winter without any correspondence from Pemberley, and out of cowardice, Kieran did not return to Kent. In the weeks that followed, he turned over the parting promise she made to write him. While he knew Miss Sinclair to be many things, a liar was not among them, though he could not attribute a reason to her lapse in communication.

When December rolled around, he had begun to concede hope of hearing from her until, one morning, Kym sauntered in from the foyer with a cream envelope tucked under her arm and a positively devilish quirk in her brow.

“What is that?” Kieran asked, glancing up from his parchment.

Kym glanced at him askance, her pinkie teasing the lip of the wax seal. “Wouldn’t you like to know, brother.”

Kieran sighed, tapping his pen impatiently against his desk. “Who is it from?”

Her coy profile was painted in the gauzy sunlight that had managed to slip through the drapes as she drifted past the bay window. The weather had been typical of that of an English winter, all sickly sunlight and bluish cold. She was still looking out at the grounds when she replied, a self-assured smirk tugging at the edges of her lips. “Pemberley.”

Kieran crossed the room and snatched it from her hand, his heart stuttering.

“Hey!—” Kym huffed indignantly.

Kieran peered at the envelope, ignoring her. He knew that the letter had come from Miss Sinclair even before he opened the contents; her penmanship was just as severe and delicate and precise as her, curving and swooping around his address with practiced grace. Once in the privacy of his room, he broke open the wax seal and extracted the letter from the fold.

_Mr. White,_

_I hope you’ll forgive the delay in my correspondence — I doubt that it will surprise you to learn that I am far more equipped to express the nature of my feelings in written word. As such, I endeavor to speak clearly and deliberately in address of the hurt I have doubtless caused._

_I have never entertained the luxury of marrying for heart. My parents bequeathed Pemberley Estate to me when I was still too young to comprehend the responsibility of such an inheritance. Following their passing, my uncle Tristan became my legal guardian, and he is as much a father to me as my own._

_I was speaking truthfully when I told you that I cannot enjoy the same luxuries as noblemen in my station. I have always put the welfare of my parent’s legacy above all else, my own heart included. Such an expectation is one that I have imposed on myself, perhaps to my detriment. Everything I have done has been in the interest of protecting their fortune and last remaining earthly possession. You were correct in your assertion that my protectiveness has caused me to be callous, even overly suspicious of people. I will not feign ignorance to the prejudices I have held, and for the ones I so cruelly applied to you, I sincerely apologize._

_I was also speaking truthfully when I expressed my regret for my statements at Netherfield. Every word that I spoke to you at my uncle’s home in Rosings was in sincerity, though I cannot blame you for your doubt. While I endeavor to ask for your forgiveness for a second time, I realize that I cannot expect it. I have since witnessed the deepness of your sister’s connection with William, and I have ample reason to believe their connection sincere._

_You have every reason to disregard the statements I have laid before you. I only wish to make clear my intentions over these months, and, in doing so, hope to rectify the errors of my judgement. If we do not soon meet again, I wish you happiness in your future._

_Sincerely Yours,_

_Lauren Sinclair_

Kieran turned to find Kym lingering in his doorway and wordlessly handed the letter to her. She spent a moment reading it, her expression impassive, save for the faint dimple in her cheek that betrayed her gentle amusement. When she glanced up at him, her gaze was bright with mirth.

“I told you that she’s in love with you,” she replied at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tfw you're just trying to make out with your socially maladjusted gf in a moor and then her footman interrupts
> 
> y’all I just realized that I should have updated this tomorrow instead of today, I have no sense of time goodbye HAHA


	3. Chapter 3

Kieran was taking his breakfast in the dining room when their maid announced that Sir William Hawkes had arrivedat the estate and wished to speak privately with him. Although Kieran was, of course, acquainted with the man, they were certainly not close enough to warrant an unannounced visit to the estate without due cause.

He set his spoon down slowly. “Sir Hawkes? You’re certain?”

The girl nodded. “Quite.”

Somewhat incredulous, he ventured into the hall and found William lingering uncertainly in the foyer, studying a painting of their parents with his palms clasped neatly behind his back. He had an austere but unpretentious air about him, which was something of an idiom, given his considerable worth of five thousand pounds a year. His complexion was corn-fed, softened by the sun that whispered through the parted blinds and a certain kindness that was immediately evident in his disposition upon meeting him.

“Pleasure seeing you, again, sir,” Kieran said, bowing. When he straightened, the apples of William’s cheeks were lightly flushed with chagrin.

“There is no need for such formalities,” he replied warmly, bowing in turn. “William is just fine.”

Kieran led him around the corner to his cramped study, the only room that offered some semblance of quiet. “Unfortunately, my sister is not home at the moment,” he said, gesturing for him to sit in the seat opposite his desk.

“Is she out of town?” William inquired, sitting. He glanced around the room with no judgement evident in his expression, merely impassive curiosity.

“No,” Kieran replied, twisting the handle of the cellarette beneath his desk. “She’s just at the market.”

“I see.” 

He noticed, for the first time, that the stiffness of William’s posture was not due to discomfort but uncertainty; when he spoke again, Kieran noticed that his thumb was lightly circling a button at the hem of his topcoat in a restless tic.

“I meant to speak with you, actually.”

“Me?” Kieran questioned, twisting the glass top off of a decanter of brandy.

“Indeed,” William replied. “You might know that I am rather fond of your sister.”

Kieran poured a splash of brandy in one of the glasses and then glanced back up at the man’s face. “I do,” he agreed, nodding. “With all due respect, my lord, I believe only a simpleton would be daft enough not to notice your affections.”

“I confess that I have never been adept at concealing matters of the heart,” William replied, accepting the glass from Kieran’s proffered hand. After a pause, he added, “Then you must know …”

“Know…?” Kieran replied absently. 

William adjusted his cravat. “That I wish to marry her,” he finished, somewhat clumsily.

Kieran startled, stunned by the admission. He surely would have dropped the decanter had William not reached out to gently pluck the bottle from his slack grip. He set it on the desk gingerly, as though he was handling something explosive.

“You wish to _marry_ her?” Kieran echoed incredulously.

The tips of William’s ears reddened. “If you’ll give your blessing, sir.”

Kieran sat back in his seat slowly. He didn’t know how many shocking revelations he was expected to endure in the span of a single month. He hoped, for his own sake, that the universe was quite finished.

“I confess that I was unaware of the depth of your feelings,” Kieran murmured at last. “And so soon.”

“Actually,” William replied thoughtfully, “Miss Sinclair encouraged me to come to Longbourne.”

Kieran’s head snapped up at that. “Beg pardon?”

The man nodded slowly. “I was unsure whether my affections would be reciprocated, but Miss Sinclair convinced of the nature of your sister’s feelings. She told me that I must travel to Longbourne posthaste.”

Kieran palmed at his slack jaw in undisguised astonishment. He was aware that the reaction was quite rude, though he could not bring himself to temper his surprise. “Why?”

William’s tawny brows furrowed in confusion. “Why what, exactly?”

“I mean…” Kieran leaned forward on his elbows. “Why did she tell you that?”

“Ah.” William’s features grew wistful as he contemplated the question. “I have known Lauren for a very long time. I understand that you two had something of a … tumultuous start to your acquaintanceship.” He winced. “I do apologize for what you overheard.”

“Think nothing of it,” Kieran replied quickly. “It was a long time ago.”

“I knew Lauren in childhood,” William continued. “She is not without fault, to be sure, though I have never known anyone more loyal, nor pure of character. While her actions can be misguided, they do not lack good intention. Everything she does is for the purpose of protecting those she holds dear.” When he blinked up from the floor, his expression was warm with earnestness. “I believe that she wished to amend her past errors, in some way.”

Kieran was quiet as he considered the information. The sentiments he expressed surely matched those she’d conveyed in her letter. “At any rate,” he replied, shaking his head, “You didn’t come to Longbourne to discuss Miss Sinclair, did you?”

“No,” William replied. “I did not, in fact.”

“You wish to ask for the hand of a most beloved sister.” Kieran tilted his head, appraising William with a gimlet-eyed stare. “You must know that I am not prepared to give her away to just anyone, sir.”

“I wouldn’t dream it,” William countered good-naturedly. His eyes drifted to a portrait of his parents, then back to Kieran’s face. “If you don’t mind me asking, what, er…”

“We’re half-siblings, actually,” Kieran interjected softly. “My mother married her father. They fell ill when I was sixteen, she thirteen. It’s just been the two of us since.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that,” William replied. “I lost my mother to illness, some three years ago now.”

The room fell quiet for a moment. It was not uncomfortable, merely laden with contemplation.

“You can imagine, then, that I’m very protective over her. She is the kindest person I have ever known, though this virtue can be exploited. And it has,” Kieran added sullenly. “The goodness of her heart has blinded her to the truth of people’s character.” When William smiled at that, Kieran blinked at him quizzically. “What?”

William pulled a hand through his flaxen hair, causing a few strands to spool boyishly over his forehead. “It’s just funny,” he replied.“You sounded like Lauren. You two are rather alike, I think.”

Months ago, Kieran would have been loathe to admit they shared any commonalities, but now, it was becoming exceedingly clear that the same traits he’d disavowed in her were ones he possessed in himself.

“I find the notion of handing a woman over for marriage to be archaic, personally,” Kieran murmured, after a moment’s deliberation. “You might have found that my sister is wholly capable of making her own decisions.” He paused. “However, you should know that I will have your head if you break my sister’s heart. I like you, but it must be said.”

William leaned forward slightly on his elbows, one silvery brow edged into his hairline. “Is this your answer, then?”

A slow smile tugged at the edges of Kieran’s lips. “It is. You should know, though, that she’s a dreadful cook. And she’s not much for needlepoint, nor the pianoforte.”

William chuckled. “How fortunate, then, that I rather happen to enjoy both. The cooking and the pianoforte, I mean. I’ve never taken to embroidery.”

“I fear your poor pillows are destined to look exceptionally dull, then.”

The men lapsed into lighter conversation in anticipation of Kym’s arrival back at Longbourne. Just as Kieran was beginning to suspect that his silly sister had bought out the entirety of the market, he finally heard the sound of their carriage arriving at the estate. When she breezed through the front door some ten minutes later, he was waiting in the foyer to receive her.

“It might interest you to know,” Kieran drawled, “That William Hawkes has arrived to speak with you.”

“Here?” Kym gasped.

“Yes.”

“Now?”

“It would seem so.”

“Whatever could he be here for?” She breathed, patting a harried hand over her skewed bonnet.

“You’ll have to ask him yourself,” Kieran tutted coyly, shouldering past her. “He’s in the study.” He paused, his hand curled over the door knob. A swell of emotion rose in his chest as he looked at her, realizing, then, that this would be the last time that they would only belong to one another.

“What’s that look on your face for?” Kym questioned, leaning forward to tweak his nose. “You look positively stricken.”

Kieran brushed her hand away with an affectionate swat.

“Nothing at all, sister.”

* * *

He decided to walk through the grounds after taking his leave; exercise had always had the effect of soothing his racing mind, and he had a great deal to consider following his discussion with William. He could not have been happier for his sister, but he remained plagued with thoughts of Miss Sinclair, particularly the revelation that it had been she who had convinced William to travel to Longbourne.

His boots crunched over the thin layer of frost that had settled over the grass like shimmering baubles. Morning tended to be his favorite time of day, for it was both uncharacteristically quiet and exceptionally peaceful, especially in winter; the countryside was still stirring under a blanket of fog that lingered in the still air like a gossamer tapestry, obscuring his vision but for a few feet ahead of him.

As Kieran approached the peak of the hill overlooking the estate’s lake, he found that he was not alone. He supposed it was to be expected, for she always did have a habit of appearing unannounced.

Miss Sinclair didn’t notice his approach; she was facing the frozen lake with her back to him and her head tilted, inspecting a sparrow in the trees with reverent focus. He had always thought she looked the most beautiful when she believed no one was watching her, for her features folded delicately inward, her sulky lip pressed between her teeth and her brow drawn low.

“I almost drowned in that lake once,” Kieran commented blithely, drawing to a stop at the foot of the hill.

Miss Sinclair turned, startled. Her pale cheeks were reddened by the cold, even despite the wool scarf she wore around her neck. She was dressed plainly, in a simple frock and riding boots that looked in such poor shape it was a wonder she was as rich as she was. The state of her clothes always suggested she’d just finished trapping across England. “You did?”

Kieran nodded. “I was thirteen. My father built a rope swing on that tree, there,” He pointed at it, a stately oak that stretched over the lake and tossed spindly shapes in the water's reflection. “One summer, I jumped off of it, but the water was too shallow where I landed. I hit my head on a rock.”

She gaped up at him. “What happened then?”

Kieran grinned and tapped his brow. “Got a scar here and a thorough tongue lashing from Kym. She pulled me out of the lake, though I don’t remember any of it. I woke to her beating on my chest and calling me a proper idiot for scaring her half to death.”

She smiled softly. “She is something, isn’t she?”

“She is.”

“What you’ve done for her …” He trailed off, finding his gratitude inarticulable. “She and William will be very happy. Your kindness is not a debt I will soon be able to repay.”

“Such a debt does not exist,” Miss Sinclair replied quickly. “It was the least I could do.”

They lapsed into a pensive quiet, lulled by the birdsong and the gentle wind that whispered through the moor.

“Why did you come here?” Kieran asked. He found her hand and threaded his fingertips through hers, smoothing his thumb over the ridges of her knuckles.

Miss Sinclair huffed a humorless laugh. “I have been exceptionally foolish over these past months,” she began. “Once I was aware of the depth of William’s connection with your sister, I knew that he’d rely on my encouragement to act upon his feelings. He has always valued my opinion greatly, perhaps even above his own.”

“He trusts you,” Kieran said.

She nodded. “Perhaps too much. He forgets that I am not infallible.”

“You do make that rather easy to forget. The infallible Miss Sinclair, worth ten thousand a year,” he chided, throwing his arm out at his side. “Owns _half of Derbyshire_ —”

“Come off it,” she hissed. “I don’t own half—”

“Yes, yes,” Kieran scoffed. “Only a _quarter_.”

She elbowed his ribs teasingly and then returned her gaze to the frozen lake. “I mean it,” she murmured.

Kieran nodded. “I know that you do.”

“Do you?” She replied skeptically. “I believe I have made such a sentiment anything but clear.”

“To be sure.”

When Miss Sinclair turned to look at him, her gaze sparkled brightly with unshed tears. “I was very wrong about you, Mr. White.”

Kieran stepped forward and drifted the pad of his thumb under the damp corner of her eye. “It’s alright” he murmured. He leaned forward and pressed his lips there, and he cherished the way she tased of salt and honey,and that she softened to his touch sensibly, as though guided by a warm current. “It is.”

She tilted her chin up and raised her palm to the side of his face, her delicate fingers splayed driftingly over his cheek, like a paper fan.

“What is it?” He asked.

Her mouth twitched at the edges in the way that he knew meant she was pondering something very intently. It was his second favorite of her expressions, with the first being her rare, enigmatic smile, which unfurled over her face like petals in bloom, sweetening everything in its wake.

“My feelings for you are unchanged,” Miss Sinclair said at last. Her voice trembled, but her expression was utterly resolute.

Kieran smoothed a wayward strand of hair out of her face and hovered his fingers there, warming the cold shell of her ear between his forefinger and thumb. “Is that so?” He replied playfully.

“Despite the errors I made in how I expressed them—”

He snorted.

“ _Despite how I expressed them_ ,” she continued crisply, her eyes narrowed in feigned annoyance, “You must know that you have captured my heart. From the very beginning.”

“The very beginning?” He responded skeptically, quirking a brow when she nodded in affirmation. “And was it my impertinence that attracted you to me?”

Without preamble, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his. Her mouth was chapped from the cold, and when she edged her tongue along the inside of his lip, he found that she tasted just as deliriously sweet as he remembered. Amused by her boldness, he laughed into her mouth and drew her close, drawing one hand gently around the small of her back, the other around her nape. 

When she drew back, her features were bright with breathless happiness. “Your impertinence,” she replied, “And your wit.”

He shrugged off his topcoat and slung it around her shoulders, tipping the collar up against the chill. “If that is so,” Kieran replied, “Then I shall never stop speaking out of turn, if only it will endear you more to me.”

Miss Sinclair rewarded him with a smile at that, and she had never looked so beautiful to him as she did just then, windswept and hopelessly happy. “I would expect nothing less.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, the spicy epilogue lies ahead. 
> 
> *marge simpson hiding her face meme*


	4. Epilogue

It should be said that Lauren Sinclair looked particularly radiant in white.

They had scarcely reached the threshold of the bedroom before his hands were on her shoulders, backing her flush against the door, his lips needling at her throat. When she sighed, it washed over the top of his bowed head like a balmy breeze.

“You’re awfully impatient, Mr. White,” she chided, tipping her head back against the doorframe. Her fingertips slipped underneath his coat and curled around what she presumed would soon be a thoroughly-rumpled tunic, drawing him closer to her in spite of her protests.

“I’ve been very patient, _Mrs. White,_ ” Kieran replied hoarsely against her neck. “Exceedingly so.” His lips steadfastly drifted upwards, peppering kisses up the gentle curve of her throat, her chin, the harsh line of her jaw. “Do you know how difficult it is to focus on anything beyond kissing you when you’re looking like this?”

He drew back to appraise her fully. His wife looked the perfect picture of a blushing bride, which was somewhat amusing, being that demure was certainly not among the first adjectives he’d use to describe her. She was softened in the candlelight, her lips parted in breathlessness, quirked into a whisper of an impish grin.

Lauren cocked one brow into her hairline. “Is that so? I suppose it is only fair, then, being that you insisted on a traditional wedding ceremony while I was perfectly happy to elope.”

“You’ll have blame Mrs. Hawkes for that,” he replied pointedly. “I have never seen my sister so utterly consumed with anything as she was with planning our wedding.”

“I wonder how she will fill her days now that it’s over,” Lauren murmured thoughtfully.

“Vexing Mr. Hawkes, no doubt,” Kieran replied. “It is perhaps the only activity she enjoys more than meddling in the lives of others.”

“Only slightly,” she laughed in response.

Kieran returned his lips to hers with more fervor, tracing the damp plane of her flushed mouth under his own with a sort of reverent intensity, as though internalizing the memory so that he could call upon it later. He was numbly aware of his coat falling to the floor, though he couldn’t place who was responsible for its removal; they moved as one, hands worrying at belt buckles and buttons, lips and teeth and tongues that had neither a fixed beginning nor end, for they moved within one another as confidently as though they shared the same consciousness.

“Bed,” she panted, drawing back only when the risk of hypoxia overwhelmed her want.

“Bossy,” Kieran replied. And then he swept her into his arms — no small feat, given the yards of tulle presently adorning her skirts — and promptly tossed her onto the duvet. He snorted at the petulant little yelp she gave, for it was both so very unlike her in disposition and breathlessly endearing all the same. “Who on earth decided to put you in so much bloody fabric? It’ll take ages to get this off.”

“That’s rather presumptuous, Mr. White,” Lauren commented, leaning forward to loosen his cravat. “Who’s to say you’ll see me without it?”

“Ah,” he murmured, lifting her knuckles to his lips and kissing them. “Yes, how could I have presumed such a thing?”

“Preposterous,” she agreed breathlessly.

“Although…” Kieran leaned forward, caging her on either side with his kneecaps. He inclined his head, now close enough to kiss her, if only he dipped his chin just so. “I do recall you were the one who _demanded_ that I take you to bed.”

“Demanded?” She scoffed, as though she considered the notion patently ridiculous. “I hardly — _ah_.” His tongue darted out to trace the dip in her clavicle, just above the neckline of her wedding gown, and then she evidently stopped thinking entirely.

When Kieran undressed her, he did so slowly, meticulously, with both his hands and his lips, tracing the curves and divots and edges along the soft planes of her skin. He was desperate to commit this to memory: His wife on their wedding night, flushed and mewling and half-wild with want beneath him, his name resting on her lips like a wine stain.

When they were finally together as one, it happened quickly, which was fitting, perhaps, being that he couldn’t recall a time before loving her. He knew only in the delirious, sprawling _after,_ the point where he was already within the throes of it. “Beautiful,” he murmured. He rocked his hips back and then fell into her like a cresting wave, helpless to her gravity. “Perfect.”

Lauren wove her fingers through his dampened hair, watching him with through hooded lids, drunk on the precipice of release. “I love you,” she whispered. He leaned down and captured the shape of the words in his mouth, wishing she’d say them again and never stop.

Kieran increased his pace when she moved more urgently against him, curling her slender fists in the bedsheets, panting her desire against the curve of his ear. She drifted her palms along the shifting muscles at his back in a lilting circuit, carving little half-moon divots into his shoulder caps when her pleasure threatened to overcome her. Kieran reciprocated by taking her lip between his teeth and nipping on the tender, kiss-swollen skin. He felt her accompanying moan everywhere, as though he’d been submerged within it.

Her mouth curled around the shape of a pleading whimper, but no sound came out. She tilted her head back, the whites of her eyes gleaming in the flickering candlelight, twin beacons guiding him directly to her.

“What do you need?” He growled, taking fistfuls of her soft hips and drawing her further into him, canting her just slightly off of the bed.

She was babbling, inarticulate, desperate. He knew that they yearned for the same fragmented wishes,shards of painted glass that only created a complete image when slotted together. For they had always been the end to the other’s means, the fragment completing the sentence the other hadn’t known how to finish, the thought previously thought inarticulable before they’d heard it on the other’s lips.

The end came in unison, in gentle harmony. It was her name on his lips and his lips at her neck, poised just over the hollow of her throat like an X on a treasure map. It was their fingers intertwined tightly, as though pressing the moment between their palms like a moth in resin. It was something old and unspeakable by name, a pleasure only articulable in a language long-since defunct.

Kieran drew her to his chest as they lay panting, evening their breaths until they were synchronized. In his breathless gratitude, he pressed a clumsy, open-mouthed kiss against the smooth cap of her shoulder.

Lauren rolled over to face him, the curve of her willowy silhouette brushed with dusky, flickering light. Her eyes were closed, but he knew that she hadn’t quite crossed the precipice of sleep yet. “How foolish we were,” she murmured, her voice thick with sleep. “For so very long.”

“Ah,” Kieran sighed, smoothing her rumpled hair behind her ear. “I dare say that the journey wouldn’t have been half as interesting, had we not been.”

She popped one eye open, assessing him wryly. “Oh?”

“Of course. I will fondly recount the memory of the first time my wife professed her love to me, only to then state that she was doing so _against her better judgement—”_

Lauren sat up with a groan, muffling his words under her hand. “Don’t speak of that day.”

Kieran chuckled through the gaps in her fingers. “We came around in the end, did we not?” He pried her hand off of his face and leaned up on his elbows, peering at her with gentle amusement. “For I would not have thought it possible to feel such incandescent happiness, and I will spend a lifetime experiencing it with you. If that does not make me the luckiest man on earth, I cannot think of what does.”

She smiled softly. “If that is the case, Mr. White,” she replied, “Then I suppose it’s all just as well.”

He took her face in his hands and kissed her lips.

“Just as well.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is probably an inopportune time to get sappy, but I will close this out with a few words while I have your ear.
> 
> 2020 was a very strange year for most of us. I found myself faced with an abundance of time, a luxury I hadn’t had before, being that there wasn’t a whole lot going on in quarantine. I had only intended to upload one fic, but I was absolutely blown away by the reception and the warmth of the community. I’m very pleased to report that you’re now all stuck with me. 
> 
> This year took a lot from many of us, but if I’m grateful for one thing, it’s that it guided me here. Words cannot express how grateful I am to all of you for believing in my work from the very beginning. 
> 
> As long as I still have an audience, you can bet that I’ll still have stories in me. I love you all very dearly, and here’s hoping that we all have a much brighter year ahead. 
> 
> With love,
> 
> -Rabbit

**Author's Note:**

> Things are off to a smooth start. 
> 
> If you’re enjoying this, consider checking out Peach’s [>Lies and Legitimacies](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25773718/chapters/62597155), one of my favorite AUs ever.
> 
> I’ll be updating this every other day. The epilogue got, um … spicy … so I’ll post that as a separate chapter so I don’t unwillingly defile anyone. Now that I’m free from deadline hell I have time to reply to comments again, and I’d love to hear your thoughts on this 🥺 All my love,
> 
> -Rabbit


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